Hostage - Страница 40

It wasn't easy to reach. The wine cellar had its own air-conditioning system, a single compressor that hung in the dead space, suspended from the rafters by four chains and filling the crawl space with its width. Thomas had to wiggle under the compressor to reach the hatch on the far side; there was no way around. Thomas had squeezed under it before, but not often, and he was smaller then. He lay on his back and inched under. Flat like that, his nose still scraped the compressor's smooth flat bottom. It smelled damp.

When he reached the hatch side of the compressor he was wet with sweat. The dust that covered him turned to slick mud. It had taken a lot longer to get under it than he thought.

Thomas listened at the access hatch. After a few seconds, he slowly lifted the hatch. The wine cellar was empty and dark. It was a long narrow room lined with floor-to-ceiling wine racks, kept at a chilly fifty-two degrees. Thomas clicked on his flashlight, wedged it in the rack against one of the bottles, then turned himself around to dangle his feet and feel for footing. In a few moments he had reached the floor.

He eased open the door. The den beyond was bright with light. He could hear the TV in his father's office across the hall and Jennifer in the kitchen. He heard a male voice, but he couldn't tell if it was Dennis or Mars; he was pretty sure it wasn't Kevin.

The den was a cozy, wood-paneled room that his father used for business meetings and smoking cigars. Two dark leather couches faced each other across a coffee table, and the shelves were filled with books that his dad liked to read for fun, old books about hunting in Africa and science fiction novels that his father told him were worth a lot of money to collectors. A bar lined by four leather stools filled one side of the room. It was the one room in the house where Thomas's mom let his father smoke, though she made him close the doors when he had the stogies fired up. Thomas's father liked calling them 'stogies.' It made him smile.

All Thomas had to do to reach the office was cross the den to the double doors, then run across the hall. To his right would be the front door; to his left, the entry hall that led to the kitchen and back of the house.

Thomas took out his cell phone and turned it on.

He called Chief Talley.

TALLEY

Talley checked his radio.

'Jorgenson?'

'Here, Chief.'

'Stand by.'

Talley was at the rear of Smith's property with a Sheriff's tac officer named Hobbs. Hobbs had a Remington Model 700 sniper rifle fitted with a night-vision scope. The chamber was clear and the magazine empty. Talley carried a shotgun fixed with the Starflash grenade.

'Let me see.'

Talley took the rifle from Hobbs and focused the scope on the French doors. He had been peering over the top of the wall for almost six minutes, waiting for Thomas to call. Jennifer and Krupchek were in the kitchen. He thought Kevin was in the family room, but he wasn't sure. Dennis passed through the kitchen twice. He had exited toward the master bedroom three minutes earlier and had not returned. Talley thought he was probably in the safety room, watching the perimeter on the monitors.

Talley's phone rang. He was expecting it, but he wasn't ready for it. He jumped, startled.

Hobbs whispered, 'Easy.'

Talley handed the rifle back to Hobbs, then answered, his voice low.

'Talley.'

Thomas whispered back at him.

'Hi, Chief. I'm in the den.'

Talley watched the shadows play on the French doors.

'Okay, bud. You ready? Just like we said?'

'Yeah. I won't get caught.'

'If there's any chance – any! – you get back up to your room.'

Talley felt like a liar even saying it. The whole thing was a chance.

'Here we go.'

Talley keyed his shoulder mike.

'Kill the lights.'

The house plunged into darkness.

DENNIS

Dennis sat at Walter Smith's desk, watching television. Kevin was back by the French doors, and Mars had the girl in the kitchen. All but two of the local stations had resumed regular programming, breaking in every few minutes with an aerial shot of York Estates, but the national cable channels didn't bother. Dennis felt slighted. He watched MTV with the sound low, black guys with blond hair pretending to be gangsters. He pointed his pistol at them, try this, motherfuckers.

Dennis had progressed from vodka on the rocks to vodka from the bottle, racking his brain for a way he could escape with the money. He was pissed off and frustrated, and grew scared that Kevin was right: That he wouldn't be able to get away with the cash, and that he would go back to being just another shitbag in a cell. Dennis took another hit of the vodka, thinking that he'd rather be dead. Maybe he should just run. Stuff his pockets with as much cash as possible, torch the friggin' house like Mars said, then duck through the little window into the oleander and run like a bat out of hell. They would probably machine-gun him before he got ten feet, but what the hell, it was better than being a turd.

'Shit.'

Dennis left the office, went back to the bedroom, and put the suitcase on the bed. He stared at the cash. He touched the worn bills, silky smooth and soft. He wanted it so badly that his body trembled. Cars, women, clothes, dope, copper bars, Rolex watches, fine food, boats, homes, freedom, happiness. Everybody wanted to be rich. Didn't matter who you were or where you came from or how much money you had; everyone wanted more. It was the American Dream. Money.

The notion came to Dennis like a rush of Ecstasy as he stared at the money: Cops are poor. Cops wanted to be rich like everyone else. Maybe he could split the loot with Talley, trade cash for safe passage to Mexico, work out a scam so that the other cops wouldn't know, something like pretending to swap the hostages for Talley so that the two of them could drive down to TJ together, laughing all the way because the other cops wouldn't dare try to assassinate him if they thought Talley's life hung in the balance. He would even toss in Kevin and Mars; let'm have someone to swing for the Chinaman. Dennis grew excited as he spun through the possibilities. Everyone knew that cops didn't make shit for a living. How far would Talley go for a hundred thousand dollars? Two hundred thousand? A half a million?

Dennis decided to call Talley right away. He was halfway back to the office, thinking how best to persuade Talley that he could be a wealthy man, when the house died. The lights went out, the TV stopped, the background hum that fills all living homes vanished.

Kevin shouted from the other side of the house.

'Dennis? What happened?'

'It's the cops! Get those fuckin' kids!'

Blind in the darkness, Dennis rushed forward, following the wall. He expected to hear the doors crashing open at any second, and knew his only chance was to reach the girl or her fat brother.

'Kevin! Mars! Get those kids!'

Milky light from the French doors filled the family room. Kevin was behind the sofa; Mars was in the kitchen, holding the girl by her hair. Mars was smiling, the crazy bastard. Like this was fun.

'Told you they'd cut the power.'

Talley's amplified voice echoed through the house, not from the street this time, but from the backyard.

'Dennis? Dennis Rooney?'

Dennis wondered why Talley was behind the house.

'Dennis, it's time to talk.'

Then the backyard erupted: Explosions jumped and careened over the surface of the water like automatic gunfire. Star-bright flashes lit the backyard like a Chinese New Year parade. The world was going to hell.

Dennis threw himself behind the kitchen counter, waiting for it to end.

THOMAS

Thomas pushed out of the wine cellar as soon as the lights went off, slipped around the end of the bar, and scurried to the double doors. Dennis and Kevin were shouting, their voices coming from the family room. He knew he wouldn't have much time.

Thomas got down on his hands and knees, and peeked through the doorway. Across the hall, his father's office flickered with light from the candles. Thomas leaned farther out into the entry to see if anyone was coming. The hall was empty.

No guts, no glory.

Thomas ran across the hall into his father's office just as Chief Talley's voice boomed through the house. He knew that something loud was going to go off, so he tried to ignore all that. He concentrated on listening for footsteps.

Thomas went directly to the computer on his father's desk. He had brought his flashlight, but the candles gave enough light so that he didn't need it. The desk was scattered with papers, but he didn't see any disks. He checked the computer's Zip drive. It was empty. He lifted the papers around the computer and keyboard, but he didn't see any disks there, either.

A series of explosions cut through the house like a giant string of firecrackers. Thomas thought Dennis was shooting. Kevin shouted something, but Thomas didn't understand him. He was scared that they were on their way. He ran to the door to go back into the den, but stopped at the hall, listening. His heart pounded so loud he could barely hear, but he didn't think they were coming.

Chief Talley had told him not to spend more than a minute or two. He didn't have much time. He had used too much already.

Thomas looked across the entry hall to the safety of the den, then glanced back at the desk. A picture flashed in Thomas's memory: Earlier that day, after all the shooting, his father had tried to talk Dennis into getting a lawyer and giving up; he had gone to his desk, placed the disks in a black case, and put the case into the drawer. The disks were in the drawer!